


Bury the Blade

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 15:29:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7111735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all started out so innocently. Sansa had smiled at him, cheeks dimpled and eyes bright, and said, “There’s something I’d like to try, if you wouldn’t mind indulging me.”</p><p>Foolish question. Jon would indulge her in absolutely anything under the sun. Were she to ask him to kill a man in cold blood, he might simply hope the man had done something to deserve it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bury the Blade

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING, SEASON 6 SPOILERS IN THIS NOTE (but not in the fic):
> 
> After Jon's resurrection, a lot of people were concerned that he would be Azor Ahai and Sansa would become his Nissa Nissa, and he would have to sacrifice her to save the world, a la Azor Ahai stabbing Nissa Nissa in the breast with his sword. I...have proposed an alternate interpretation of stabbing her in the breast with his sword and thus I bring you Jon Ahai and his Sansa Sansa. Enjoy and also please accept my sincere apology.

It all started out so innocently. Sansa had smiled at him, cheeks dimpled and eyes bright, and said, “There’s something I’d like to try, if you wouldn’t mind indulging me.”

Foolish question. Jon would indulge her in absolutely anything under the sun. Were she to ask him to kill a man in cold blood, he might simply hope the man had done something to deserve it.

When she’d cornered him in their bed chamber with her brow furrowed in consideration and a crock of something pale and oily in her hand, he’d had cause to reconsider. He’d already stripped down to his smallclothes in readiness for bed but he had a sudden wish to be clad in armor to deal with whatever had put that industrious gleam in her eye and that strange substance in her hand.

“I read it in a book,” she says in answer to his unasked question, after he’s let her guide him to lie down on their bed with his shoulders against the headboard. “Or rather I saw it in a book. An illustrated book. Of,” at this she wrinkles her nose and shrugs, “you know. Illicit pictures. Positions. Things of that sort.”

Jon could practically swallow his tongue. A dozen thoughts swim through his head. That such a book should exist, that Sansa should have read it, how she looked as she read it, whether her cheeks pinked like those of a shy maid or she’d merely smiled like a woman wedded and many times bedded, what sorts of things the book might contain, what sorts of thoughts Sansa’s clever mind might contain after reading it. What she has in mind right now.

He’s more than ready for her when she reaches to ease down his smallclothes, no matter that she hasn’t touched him yet. His cock knows she’s going to, and that’s enough to put it at attention. She laughs as it catches at his smallclothes, so that she has to grasp him in one hand and maneuver them free. He’s never adjusted to the sound of her laughter. When she was a girl, her laugh had been high and bright, like the sweet ringing of a bell. It was nothing like the husky chuckle she has now, one that rubs over him like a physical thing and makes the skin behind his ears prickle with pleasure. He’s about to ask her what happens now when she dips her fingers into the crock sitting on the mattress by her hip and smears his cock with whatever it contains.

It’s cool and clammy at first, and Jon makes a strange, involuntary hiccup, his eagerness flagging for a moment along with his cock. But then she wraps her hand around him and drags it down and back up, warming the substance until it glides warm and smooth around him with her hand.

“How’s that?” she asks, in a tone of voice that tells her she knows just how it is. Jon answers anyway, his eyes shuttering with pleasure.

“Good. What is it?” 

“Cooking lard,” she says matter-of-factly, as if that isn’t a strange thing to be stroking onto her husband’s cock. “To make things easier. The book mentioned sensual oils and this was the closest I could imagine.” Laughter and arousal seize Jon’s chest. Gods, but she is a surprise sometimes. Then he catches the earlier bit.

“To make things easier? What things?”

“This,” she answers, standing to strip her shift over her head in one smooth move, leaving her in her own smallclothes, her night braid twisting in a coppery rope between her breasts. She tosses it over her shoulder in a movement that does lovely things for said breasts, and then kneels between his legs, lowering her chest until his cock lies along her sternum.

He has no idea what’s going on, but somehow it’s still painfully arousing. Perhaps it’s Sansa’s experimental curiosity, perhaps her sensual generosity. Perhaps it’s just the sight of his cock nestled between her teats. In his concentration of maintaining his control, it takes him a few moments to realize that she’s shifting about, moving her arms at her sides and frowning in confusion.

“What’s wrong?” he grits out. Her twisting and twitching may not be what she had in mind, but it’s rather effective all the same.

“Well I’m supposed to push my teats around you. So you can…you know. Like they’re my…you know.”

At first Jon doesn’t know. Then it dawns on him. “So I can fuck them like they’re your cunt!” he says in triumph and then groans at the heat the idea sends through him, and even more at the way Sansa’s eyes darken and her tongue, as pink as a boiled raspberry sweet, touches her upper lip.

“Yes,” she says, the word the texture of raw silk, “but I think perhaps my teats are too small.” She brings her elbows together, her hands curled into fists at her chin and moves forward experimentally, so his cock slides between her breasts, aided by the warmed lard. Jon imagines it’s not as the illustration showed, but it feels fine enough to him.

“I rather think your teats are perfect,” he rasps. Sansa only smiles and continues to try to find some sort of effective rhythm, though it’s frustrating as much as it is satisfying. It’s all rather silly, truth be told, but because it’s Sansa – her sensuality, her curiosity, her generosity, her own desire – it’s all that Jon needs. He comes quickly, with little warning, his seed pulsing out into the valley of her breasts, across her collarbone, over the skin at her heart. Any dismay that he would have at mussing her so evaporates in light of her delighted smile of satisfaction at her success. There’s a curious power in knowing he can please her so, simply by indulging her, by wanting her, by loving her. Jon’s never felt stronger. He thinks he could save the whole world and then make love to her all over again. It’s all he can do not to babble soft words of love and promises of forever at her.

“Do you suppose the lard makes it easier to clean up?” she asks as she sits up to peer down at her chest and dab at the mingled mess on her skin, “Or harder?”

Jon sits up to catch her face in both hands and take her lips in a long, soft kiss. “Easier, surely. Since your very lucky husband will probably give you a bath in thanks for your tender ministrations.”

“A bath!” she laughs. “It’s near the middle of the night, there won’t be anyone in the kitchens to heat us water for hours yet.”

“Well then,” Jon smiles at her. “I suppose I’ll have to find other ways to occupy you until I can give you the bath you’ve so clearly earned. Perhaps you can tell me more of the things in this book of yours.” Sansa twines her arms around his neck. His seed is sticky and warm where her skin presses to his. 

“Perhaps I will,” she says. “Or perhaps we can just improvise.”

“My lady,” Jon vows fervently, “I will follow wherever you lead.” And never has a journey seemed so enticing.


End file.
